


A Decade of Lights

by bottledlogic



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2725832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledlogic/pseuds/bottledlogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane, Lisbon, and 10 Christmases between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Decade of Lights [Translation]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5854120) by [MizuTranslates (koimizu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koimizu/pseuds/MizuTranslates)



> written last year, so only follows up to 6x09 My Blue Heaven.

It’s awkward because she doesn’t really know him too well yet, but because she’s the head of the Serious Crimes Unit, and he’s technically working for her, she feels she needs to get him some sort of Christmas gift.

She has no issues buying gifts for the rest of her team. Cho will get the latest classic to be converted into a nice hardback edition; Rigsby will get Kings tickets; and Hannigan will get, well, whatever chocolate’s on special that she can find.

(And she tells herself that she may as well buy presents for the closest thing she has to a family, and no, she is _definitely_ not overthinking this.)

It certainly doesn’t help that she doesn’t know anything personal about him, aside from the obvious. So as much as she hates last minute Christmas shopping, she puts off his until that potential brainwave hits her.

A few days pass, a week, and Jane is lounging in the chair placed next to her desk, fiddling with the paperclips on her blotter, twisting them into some animal or another. She comes back, bearing an extra large coffee, and the first thing she notices about him are his red-rimmed eyes and unshaven face.

“Lisbon,” he grins up at her, proudly displaying his handiwork of what appears to be a kangaroo.

And despite his beatific smile, she can see through the façade, and knows that sleep has not been coming easily, if at all, to him. She knows the reason why he is working with them in the first place, and damn, Christmas is a time for families.

She softens as she looks at him. “Are you sleeping?”

And his eyes harden as he stares back at her. Refusing to answer, his jaw clenches, and he abruptly turns his head away.

She lets the matter drop for now, but a week later, almost too close to Christmas itself, she finds herself buying a set of throw blankets that would match well with the worn brown couch that no one else ever uses.

She leaves it wrapped with a simple note (only bearing ‘Merry Christmas’) on the end of the couch.

( _And she most definitely doesn’t wait and watch._ )


	2. two.

He scrutinises her through closed eyes from his position on the couch.

He’s come to deduce many things about her just from the way she’s walking. In this particular instance, he notices the relaxed posture, but also the slight hesitation after getting off the phone. Coupled with the wistful look on her face, he figures it must be family, because Teresa Lisbon doesn’t do wistful with anyone _except_ family.

Swinging himself from the couch, he strides into her office, determined to confront her and pry information from her.

(Not that he needs to, but he’s trying to get her to talk to him more.)

“So, Chicago?”

And she absentmindedly rubs at the impending headache, resignedly giving him her attention. She’s not surprised that he’s already worked it out, but for once, she wishes that she could hold the upper hand.

“Yeah, my brothers and their families.” Biting it out and slowly baiting him.

He rakes his eyes over her desk, trying to find evidence of her elusive family. There is the bare minimum; a picture of her and her brothers, and he guesses it was taken when she was eighteen. Without parents, but also more carefree and relaxed than he’s ever seen her. His eyes linger for a moment longer on the picture, before raising them to gaze at her.

“You did a good job with them.” He simply states it, honest.

Her laugh is bitter and torn. “I tried. And then I left for college. It’s been a long time. I don’t think they got it, or still get it, so yeah, it will be interesting after these years.”

It’s not the first time that Tommy’s called to plead and beg her to come back. It’s not the first time that Ian’s called to tell her she’s working too hard. And it’s not the first time that James has reminded her about the importance of family.

“It’ll be somewhat disappointing for them,” she whispers in a low, hoarse voice, and he almost misses the admission.

 “Lisbon,” he says firmly. “Go see them while you can. They’re family.”

And she realises with a sudden jolt of sorrow, that while she’s internally debating about this, _he can’t_.

Two years isn’t enough for them to develop anything more than a professional relationship, considering his propensity to screw them over and mess with them. So schooling her face into a less emotional mask, she asks him gently, almost back to her normal self.

“You’ll be okay, right?”

And he can’t do anything but offer her a painful smile in return.

A week later, on Christmas Day, she wakes up, internally groaning at the thought of the chaos she’s expecting to encounter over lunch and dinner. Seeing her brothers and their wives, nieces and nephews has been lovely, but she’s been too used to living inside her own head for too long. Quickly getting dressed and wrapping herself in a thick coat, she grabs her phone and meanders outside. Staring at her booted feet in the snow, she chews her lip, contemplating whether to call him.

She knows she has no right to intrude, but she’s been looking after broken people for too long, and the desire to reassure and check overrides her professionalism and any barriers she’s (he’s) placed.

Taking a breath, she dials and waits as the disembodied voice tells her to leave a message. Sighing in relief as though she’s been granted a reprieve, she quietly, confidently leaves one.

“Jane. Hope you’re okay. Just wanted to say you were right. Thanks.”

1800 miles away, and one minute later, he smiles inwardly in his head, tear tracks making another pilgrimage down his face.


	3. three.

She’s surprised that they haven’t had a blow-up of massive proportions in the last three months, so naturally, being the forward-planning-all-bases-covered person that she is, she had been dreading the next one.

(Because she is quite familiar with the concept that happiness doesn’t last long, and she has never liked conflict.)

She tells herself that surely, after three years, she should have already seen every low blow, cheap trick and piece of manipulation possible. Only this time, he’s managed to blow past that and raise her bar for asshole behaviour even higher.

Sighing, she closes the file of their just-closed case and looks out towards the bullpen. Somehow, Jane had managed to go behind her back, tip off the suspect, thus leading Rigsby and Cho in a chase across half the county, resulting in a crash involving said agents. (Somehow, angry didn’t quite cover Lisbon’s range of emotions at the scene.)

She watches as Cho downs far too many ibuprofen tablets, and in a sudden vengeful streak ( _although, it could never really compare to his, could it?_ ), she tells her senior agent to take the couch, and to take it for as long as necessary.

She is thankful that Jane is currently and wisely hiding, but the moment that thought enters and leaves her head, she hears the distant sound of a harmonica cheerfully belting out ‘O, Christmas Tree’. Dropping her head in her hands, she takes ten deep breaths, and reminds herself that she is a professional, and she can definitely approach this calmly.

Conflict Resolution 101 promptly vanishes from the forefront of her mind the second she sees her consultant dressed in ridiculous Santa garb balancing a harmonica in his mouth and right hand, and a bag of apples in his left.

“Jane! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” By now, the entire floor has congregated near the Serious Crimes’ bullpen.

Shoving the bag of apples into the hands of an unsuspecting Rigsby, he takes the harmonica out of his mouth and beams at her.

“Lisbon, I’m spreading the Christmas cheer to all you overworked and underpaid government slaves. It’s like free hugs, but musical and healthy.” He grabs an apple from the bag hanging confusedly in Rigsby’s hands, and tosses it in her direction. “Here, this Red Delicious has your name written all over it.”

She automatically catches it, and she refuses to let herself think about it, but dammit, it really is a nice gesture.

“Is this your version of an apology?”

He shrugs almost carelessly. “Meh,” he offers casually. “We got the guy in the end. Just wished it had been the butler.”

And she stands speechless in the middle of the bullpen, marvelling at the audacity of the man in front of her, juggling apples as if he hadn’t just caused a serious crash not five hours ago. Quickly rounding on the growing audience, she glares sharply at them.

“Don’t you all have places to be?”

And as fast as they appeared, they disappear again, adding yet another story to the continual tales of Patrick Jane.

“Look, Lisbon. I’m sorry. And, you know… I talked to Cho as well. He hasn’t scowled at me anymore than usual. Just…”

She sighs and bites into the apple. (It really is sweet.)

“Just don’t do it again. And next time, make sure you run it by me first. Anything you do, I need to know. And don’t say ‘deniability’ to me again.”

With that, she turns and walks into her office. But not before he hears a mutter under her breath.

“Only because it’s Christmas.”


	4. four.

The bullpen buzzes with the low symphony of sounds characteristic of a slow-working office. From his prone position on the couch, he catalogues every sound, giving him a vivid visual, without the effort of having to open his eyes.

Flipping pages. _Cho_. Crunching. _Rigsby_. Stapling paper, approximately ten pages thick. _Hannigan_. Foot tapping. _Rigsby_. Keys softly clicking, muffled by distance. _Lisbon_.

Slowly sitting up, he opens his eyes to assess the accuracy of his predictions, and finds that the office is actually more idle than he’d imagined.

Walking briskly to Lisbon’s office, he pokes his head in and looks around. She’s typing, yet simultaneously filling out forms in triplicate, the epitome of multi-tasking efficiency. The soft, yellow light gives her an almost ethereal glow, and he can tell that she’s relaxed, and…

“Something I can help you with, Jane?” She looks up at him bemusedly.

“Uh, yeah… I’m just gonna duck out for a bit. Don’t worry; it’s nothing you wouldn’t do.”

She narrows her eyes at him, trying to determine his game. “Since when do you let me know before wandering off?”

He shrugs apologetically. “Relax, woman. It’s Christmas. What could I possibly get up to?”

She opens her mouth to respond and list off a litany of possible scenarios, but before she can even start with ‘initiating a riot at the local mall with Santa and the kids versus the elves and the parents’, he darts out with a brilliant, cheeky smile plastered over his face.

It’s not until three hours later that she’s realised that she hasn’t heard from her consultant. Just as she’s about to pick up the phone and ask Sac PD whether they’ve taken anyone in dressed ridiculously, he bounces in with a gingerbread house and drops it on the small conference table.

Rigsby, predictably, is the first to leap towards it.

He announces himself with a flourish. “Also, I have crackers with me.” Turning towards her office, he proceeds to yell. “So Lisbon, get out here and celebrate with everyone.”

And she has to admit that it is a welcome break from murders and angst in general. Rigsby is full, Cho is half-smiling, and Hannigan is less of a nuisance than usual.

After the impromptu party, she pulls him aside. “Hey, thanks for that. It was…”

“You up for a drive?” He tugs on her sleeve insistently.

The look of apprehension on her face is adorable, and she glances uncertainly around. “Jane, I still have those forms from the last case because you managed to piss off the daughter. And it’s…” She pauses to stare at her watch, as if it will provide her with an excuse _not_ to leave.

“It’s Christmas, Lisbon. And six o’clock. I’m not going to kidnap you and sell you to Africa. Just trust me, woman.”

And before she can argue that, actually it’s a week before Christmas, or that the rest of her team is still here, or that she can’t just pack up and _leave_ on some impulsive jaunt across the city, she hears herself mutter, “Just let me get my jacket.”

Coming face to face with her team out in the bullpen, she calls out to them. “Guys, you can go home now. Eat, drink, whatever. I don’t want to see you until at least nine tomorrow morning.”

As she watches her team pack up and scurry out, she turns to the man rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. “This better be good,” she scowls.

“Oh, just you wait. You’re gonna love it,” he grins.

She drives for just under an hour (because, even if it is his idea, she’s still not going to let him drive), and lets him instruct her on where to park. She feels disappointment bubble up in her, because annoying though he may be, she thoroughly enjoyed the car trip of hand shadow puppets, I Spy, guess-the-job-of-the-driver-of-a-certain-car, and _no_ , it definitely wasn’t childish or stupid or _fun_.

He senses the change in her and quietly reassures her. “Don’t worry, there’s still the drive back.”

“How do you know I won’t just leave you here?” She glares back.

He gives her a look that clearly tells her that she should know better, and instead focuses on the snow softly falling in front of them.

(He tries to resist the urge to reach out and brush it off her dark green pea coat.)

After a long while, she speaks, her voice low and raspy, somewhat lost amidst the swirling flakes. “You came here earlier, right?”

A simple nod followed by a brief look towards the sky. He opens his mouth to speak, and she expectantly turns towards him, large emerald eyes piercingly staring, trying to understand.

“It doesn’t snow in Malibu.”

And it almost feels like a punch to her stomach. Because he never, _ever_ says anything about Malibu, or his family, except for those dreaded two words.

(She tries to resist the urge to place a hand on his arm.)

“It doesn’t usually snow in Sacramento.” _What else do you say?_

He gives her a faint (bitter?) smile. “No, it doesn’t,” he agrees.

“It’s beautiful, Jane.”

He lets them stand and immerse themselves for a little longer, before sighing.

“Happy Christmas, Lisbon.”


	5. five.

As much as she dislikes pointless team-building exercises, she has to admit that Minelli is right. Van Pelt does need to know how this team functions ( _how he functions_ ) and Christmas is an opportune time to play laser tag, have snow fights, go carolling together, grab drinks… And because Minelli is well aware of the walls she’s placed between herself and her team, she gives him a crooked smile of disbelief and opts for the last suggestion.

Cho and Rigsby will jump on board at the idea, being the well-adjusted individuals that they are. (And given how Rigsby can’t stop glancing in the rookie’s direction every two minutes). It’s Jane that she’s concerned about.

Kicking his couch with apprehension, she gets his attention. Cracking an eye open, he looks up at her. “What can I do for you today?”

Taken aback by his good mood, she explains to him Minelli’s suggestion. “We’re going to go out for dinner and drinks tonight. As a team. Give Van Pelt the chance to see what the team’s like, how we work.” _Show her how we’re not completely screwed by what we see and do_. Because Van Pelt does have that naïve trust and optimism that makes her wonder whether she’s been doing this job for too long.

(Or have picked up the pieces of too many broken families.)

He considers for a moment. “Okay, sure.”

“What, that’s it? No smart comments, no excuses to leave?”

Rolling his eyes, he gives her a look. “Lisbon, _you_ spend a lot of time in your office. The rest of us do get out from time to time. I’m surprised that you’re coming for this, but my guess is that Minelli must have said something.”

Scowling irritably at his discernment, she snaps back. “Just be at O’Malley’s tonight.”

At eight o’clock, she parks around the back of the establishment, noting that her team plus Jane are already inside. Sighing, she realises that she’s setting a fantastic example of how to lead a team and get caught up in paperwork.

She spots Van Pelt’s long red hair first, and slowly manoeuvres herself between tables of patrons to the team sitting in the back, almost in the shadows. Law enforcement, indeed. Her newest member greets her with a blinding (but nervous) smile, and Lisbon finds herself giving a small smile back.

“Hey guys.”

“Hey boss!” Rigsby’s enthusiasm makes her grin inwardly, and she thinks he looks simultaneously goofy, smitten and insatiably hungry. A swell of affection for her team rises, and she feels that it might not be a bad idea after all.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologises. Jane reaches for her jacket to drape over the back of her seat, and she sends him a glare as a warning not to try anything stupid or dangerous.

(Though it’s not unwelcome, she does wonder why he’s being _nice_ all of a sudden.)

And dinner happens, and she’s surprised to see that two hours have passed amicably without any major incident or without Jane insulting Van Pelt’s (or her) beliefs. Rigsby and Cho regale them with tales about the past few years, and Jane adds in his comments, being the master showman that he is. And Lisbon sits back, quietly observing, smirking slightly at Van Pelt’s reactions to some of Jane’s stunts.

At a lull in conversation, Van Pelt stands up, an apologetic look gracing her face. “Sorry, guys, I really should go now. I’m meeting another friend tonight.” Amused, Lisbon watches as Rigsby, with a look of utter disappointment, stands and offers to drive her back home. Not long after, Cho bids them a goodnight, and she think she catches the name of an obscure book hidden in his short speech.

“And then there were two.”

She glances sideways at him and tilts her head. “Drink?”

She is in no mood to return to her very empty and still unpacked apartment, with nothing but soft music, microwaveable meals, and a couch that isn’t nearly as comfortable as the one in the bullpen, for company.

He gets up and follows her to the bar, giving the bartender a wide smile and a request for green tea. At the bartender’s look of disbelief, she rolls her eyes and asks for scotch herself.

“So, what’s got you in a good mood today?”

He shrugs and offers her a smile. “You’re here.”

It’s her turn to look disbelievingly at him. “Yeah, right.”

His smile diminishes slightly, and he focuses on the amber liquid rolling hypnotically in the glass in her hands. The bartender returns with his tea in a mug that looks as if it was made two centuries ago. He takes a long sip before answering contemplatively.

“Hannigan was an ass.”

She snorts inelegantly at him, and smirks. “Yeah, he was. But he did his job most of the time. Unlike you.”

She feels warmer, and she tells herself that it is definitely the alcohol, and not his presence. Because he has been significantly more open tonight, and she realises the fun in just bantering with him; a constant game of cat-and-mouse, give and take, an exchange of ideas and quips.

“Van Pelt’s…nice.”

Curious, she returns her attention to him, probing him for more. “Yeah?”

“Ehh, a bit naïve and young, but she’s smart. She could get far.”

She silently agrees with his assessment, and tips her glass slightly in his direction.

“We’ll get there, Jane. Here’s to change.”

And he raises his mug in acknowledgement, a ghost of a smile lingering on his face.


	6. six.

They cannot get the image of young Ebony Hadley, lying gracefully atop a pile of garbage with her throat slit, out of their minds.

In interviewing her family, they find out that she was twenty, in college, had a boyfriend of two years, liked guinea pigs, wanted to be an architect, hated shopping, loved tea, and was volunteering at the local Christmas gift wrap where she was last seen alive.

Still, they power through the investigation, chasing down every possible lead, until Van Pelt figures out through too many phone calls and bank statements, that there’s something not quite right about Ebony’s best friend. And after Jane confirms her suspicions using less-questionable-than-normal methods, Lisbon calls her team together, and giving Jane a surprising go-ahead, they trap the best friend in a somewhat anti-climactic manner.

After an exhausting two days navigating through family and colleagues and college friends, case-closed pizza is greedily devoured, and the bullpen hums again with the quiet night. Van Pelt leaves first, with a smile from Lisbon, and Cho is the next to go, nodding briefly at her and the consultant sitting on the couch with his usual tea.

“Rigsby, you can go too, you know.”

Said agent looks up and shakes his head. “Nah, boss, it’s okay; I’ll just finish up this report.” He looks slightly guilty, and she is confused for a moment and looks to her consultant (who has a knowing smirk decorating his face) for help.

Facing Jane, she watches him for a full minute, trying to determine the missing piece, before deciding that maybe, she doesn’t want to know. Finally, she bids him a good night, and shaking her head, she turns to switch off her office light, the heels of her boots clicking persistently away.

An hour later, he finds her at the Christmas gift wrap where Ebony Hadley was volunteering. He winds his way around the chattering volunteers – the smiling college students, the young couples, the elderly grandparents – until he finds her at the back, calmly attacking a cylindrical package.

“You missed a spot.”

Startled, she snaps up and widens her eyes at him. Placing the final piece of tape on the present, she puts it to the completed pile, already containing twelve gifts.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Her tone is suspicious, and he smiles as she narrows her eyes at him. “And why are you here?”

He shrugs, (un)characteristically unwilling to divulge his thought process to show-off. Just as he’s about to reach for the unwrapped monster truck, the couple next to them decide to chime in, leaving her with an incoming headache.

“Hi, I’m Amy, and this is Jason.”

She looks irritably at her consultant, as if his presence prompted the too-cheerful twenty-somethings to suddenly decide small talk was a necessity.

And of course Jane grins back. “Patrick. And this is Teresa.”

Which earns him another glare.

“So, are you two together?”

And Lisbon splutters at the absolutely _insipid_ question and quickly corrects them. “Oh, god no.” Her response is somewhat muted by Jane’s (pretend?) hurt face, and she quickly looks back down at her wrapping, trying to ignore the awkward silence between the four of them.

“So, ah… What do you guys do?” Almost tentatively, as if they _need_ to fill the silence.

And this time, the silence is downright uncomfortable. Because, as Jane suspects, she’s come here to remind herself that there are people in the world who do good things without the need to compete, or play politics, or lie, or cheat, or steal, or murder. And as much as she can’t and _shouldn’t_ forget Ebony Hadley, she has become very good at compartmentalising. Wrapping presents is almost mechanical, but now she feels the weight of the past two days appear and press heavily against her.

But realising that a non-answer isn’t sufficient for the two charmingly innocent people standing beside her, Jane hastens to supply a vague response, for which she is immensely thankful for.

“Oh, she works with the police.”

She shoots him grateful smile, and he smiles back in acknowledgement at her. Amy and Jason look suitably interested, but recognising (sensing) the unwillingness to talk, they thankfully forget their interrogation.

After wrapping the monster truck, Jane passes Lisbon a sly grin, and she immediately understands and rolls her eyes at his childish game to lighten the atmosphere.

( _Since when did you read him this well?_ )

They leave an hour later having wrapped twenty more presents than the rays of sunshine next to them.


	7. seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> missing scenes piece for 3x10 Jolly Red Elf.

He feels her warmth seeping through his thin three-piece suit.

Staggering slightly next to her, he grips her right shoulder tightly as he attempts to place one foot after the other in a vaguely straight line. He can’t stop chuckling every thirty seconds, and though he can sense Lisbon’s amusement and _care_ next to him, he also feels dampened by May Walters’ sobering words. He has never used the word _addiction_ , but then, he has never felt the need to put a label on whatever it is that’s been driving him for the last eight years.

( _Anytime, anything that cuts you off from experiencing your life, it’s unhealthy, right?_ )

“Charlotte still believed in Santa.”

Her falter in her step is only detectable by him. She looks up at him, pale face framed by dark dark hair, the moon reflecting in her eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The magic was still there.” His quiet laugh turns reminiscent and wistful, and suddenly, everything doesn’t seem funny anymore. He is so tired, and maybe the alcohol is doing something, but at this very moment, internalising hurts so goddamn much.

He stares straight ahead as he murmurs quietly to the woman bearing much of his weight. “How much am I going to remember tomorrow?”

And Lisbon’s eyes darken, because as much as she wants to know what he’s thinking, what LaRoche asked him, what he’s hiding, she doesn’t want it to be divulged under the influence, and she’s not entirely sure whether she wants to know the depth of the darkness that’s been festering underneath for so long.

So she deflects slightly, leaving a twinge of humour to colour her tone. “Depends how much you’ve had.”

He smiles gently down at her, only for her to smile sadly back, because _dammit_ , her father never remembered.

“I didn’t see you much for this case,” she says. “Are you okay?”

He is silent for a moment, and before she can ask him again, he clears this throat and talks, his voice layered with hues of sadness and joy and relief.

“I couldn’t tell them about…about… I said I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to stop.”

And it’s such a change from the cheerful drunk he was not moments ago, that she wants to stop him and just let him be _happy_ and to forget for a few hours. But he ploughs on before she has a chance to switch topics.

“It’s good, Lisbon. I’m talking to you now,” he grins suddenly, beatifically at her. “Ange would have loved you. All strong and no-nonsense and you yell at me a lot.”

She feels a warm glow suffuse through her ( _better than alcohol_ ), and she has to concede that it’s nice to have gained his approval. Explicitly, or as explicit as possible. Because as much as she hates to admit, there has always been a part of her that compares herself to Angela ( _how could you not, after working so closely for so many years?_ ), always reminding her that she would never have met him had it not been for their deaths.

“What was Christmas like with them?” Boldly, she asks, hoping that he’ll take this opportunity while he can, to talk relatively uninhibited. Hoping that she’ll forget that she’s just a friend, a sounding board.

“Colourful. She’d dress in red, and Charlie in green, and we’d have lights on the tree, the ceiling, the balcony. And we’d chase the seagulls along the beach. Unwrap presents, Charlie would play something…”

His voice tails off and she clenches her left hand painfully. They reach the SUV, and she gently disentangles herself from him, immediately mourning the loss of contact ( _why are you missing the warmth?_ ). Reaching over to open the door, he catches her hand, and he looks closely, examining it like a palm reader might. A beat (mistaken for two) passes, and she extricates her hand, and clumsily shoves him into the passenger seat. Rounding the vehicle, she opens her own door to find him staring piercingly straight through her.

“What about you, Lisbon? How were your Christmases?” His voice slurs a little, and yes, it makes sense for her to tell her own war stories, but she’s not nearly as drunk as him right now, and on second thought, does that make her as bad as him?

_what’s your addiction?_

“They were…good. The four of us…plus Mom and Dad. Well, for a bit…”

And damn, it’s awkward, because surely he hasn’t forgotten in this inebriated state, has he?

He looks contritely at her. “It’s okay, Ter-Trees…Lisbon,” he says, with a look of annoyance at his inability to pronounce her name. “There’s Cho and Rigsby and Van Pelt.” he adds as an afterthought.

Her face softens considerably after his drunken thoughtfulness ( _it’s thoughtfulness, all the same_ ), and she prods back at him.

“And you?”

He shrugs, and she feels that maybe it’s the only answer he can give. The only honest answer. As much as she wants him to change, to be there, he has made it abundantly clear for the past many years that no, he may not be, and probably ( _definitely?_ ) not when it counts.

Her hands whiten against the steering wheel (she hears many many minutes tick over), and she changes the subject, unable to handle _this_ conversation right now.

“You can stay with me tonight. It’s too late to go back to the office, and I don’t want you in the attic by yourself, drunk like this.” _Because you’ve imagined it too many times; a drunk and desperate man in a claustrophobic room, with only self-pity and anger for company_.

He grins at her again, and _no_ , they will not stay up talking because he is drunk, and they are not teenaged girls with no care in the world and secrets to share.

( _We all have secrets_ )

“Thank you, Lisbon. Was beginning to think that you’d leave me alone,” he says, with a touch of his theatrical air.

Rolling her eyes, she pulls up in front of her condo, and snarks back at him. “Are you okay to get out by yourself? Or do I have to haul your ass out?”

She jumps out and pulls open his door regardless, extending her hand, which he immediately latches on to. Lurching out, he stumbles, before using her to right himself, walking awkwardly forward together. Letting go of him, she fumbles for the key, opens the door, and propels them forward.

“Hehe, careful there, Lisbon. There’s a step.” Followed by, “Oh, you’ve unpacked.”

His drunken commentary allows a smirk to unfurl from her mouth, and she turns back to him. “Just wait here, I’ll get the guest room set up. And don’t touch anything.”

She returns fifteen minutes later to beckon him upstairs, once again providing a crutch for him, footfalls synchronised and muffled on the carpet. Depositing him outside the door, she bids him goodnight.

“Here’s the aspirin for the morning. And it’s okay, as your boss, you can come in late tomorrow provided you bring fruit,” she adds, the last request prompting a joking grin from her consultant.

She retreats, and almost misses the whisper, fatigue from the busy day already wrapping itself around her.

“’Night, Lisbon.”

....

She wakes the next morning and finds a box of bear claws waiting on the kitchen bench, the box crudely festooned with marker-drawn Christmas trees and figures of Santa.


	8. eight.

He hates Vegas.

He thinks that maybe, he might have enjoyed it in his youth. Or even a few years ago.

_and the lights glitter and blind, and you can’t see a thing, and what exactly are you running to?_

Once upon a time, there was a man named Patrick, and he was fighting a bad bad wizard. He kept running and chasing and running and chasing for years, and he still couldn’t catch him. His friends wanted to help him, but one day, he left his friends behind to go hunt the bad bad wizard… _Are you lonely, now?_

He repeats the story in his head, the juvenility of it as if he were reading it to a child. To Charlotte.

The childish innocence of a bedtime story makes him laugh, because it is far from where he is right now, ( _what innocence can you find?_ ) and really, he _could_ surround himself with hookers because he is that lonely. And cynicism kicks in, because he can only see the desperate men and women throwing themselves into the light and glamour and pretense, and nothing else about Las Vegas seems to appeal to him. Almost like carnival games, and they were never meant to work.

Sitting at the bar, with his back to the world, he hears the cheap crooning of white Christmases and jingling bells and reindeers and Santa and friends and family and _love_. Resting his chin on his hands, he closes his eyes, leans forward, and imagines soft brown couches and tea and origami frogs and long stakeouts and hydrangeas and cinnamon. Then he remembers cause and effect, and realises that he can’t have them without losing _them_ , and then he remembers his reason for being stuck in this very bright pit.

“You look like shit.”

Unsealing one eye, he draws his gaze up to the bartender looming over his slumped form.

“Don’t we all?”

“You look like you need some help.”

“What are you, my mother?” Because snark is the only appropriate response to those words. And he _has_ heard those words before, albeit a long time ago ( _months?_ ) and from a very different source.

“Hey, man, I’m just trying to tell you.”

“Yeah, well…”

He’s not wrong, and he absolutely hates that he’s lost himself at this level, just to move closer and closer to his obsession. He needs to think think think, and he doesn’t know if he’s been able to do it clearly for the last two months. He’s consumed more alcohol since coming here, than in the past five years altogether.

And he hates that he’s had to hide and pretend, and damn, this is the carnival, isn’t it?

_can you look at yourself in the mirror?_

Tossing a few notes in front of him, he slides off the stool, slipping and staggering before slowly righting himself and trudging back to a motel room even more impersonal than the one in Sacramento. Picking the lock with a spare pin, the door opens to a dark room illuminated by the array of lights splashed from behind him. His gaze automatically darts to the battered phone lying next to the bed. He picks it up, and it turns and weighs, heavy with unread and unheard messages.

(He counts 87 in total.)

_have yourself a merry little christmas…_

The music plays and plays in his head and he is so angry and the phone is ready to meet the wall, repeatedly. _This is how it feels, to lose it. Are you lonely now?_

He opens the first message, and then another, and then another, and then more… He skips a few, and then a lot, and he really doesn’t want to know how it ends.

[Jane. Call me tonight, we can fix this.]

[Jane, just let me know where you are, and I’ll come and help you.]

[Seriously, Jane. If we talk to Wainwright, we can get you some help, and you can continue working with us.]

[Jane, where the hell are you?]

[Jane, when you get this message, just…call me back.]

....

[Jane, just…stay safe.]

....

He sees her in her office, sitting straight, organised desk, perpetual coffee mug beside her computer. He sees her hunched over triplicate forms, just stacks and stacks of paper, and no, that can’t be right, who’s generating paperwork for her now?

_‘twas the night before Christmas…_

His cell vibrates violently in his hand, jerking him out of his trapped fantasy, and he looks at the screen with trepidation, reminded of a Christmas many many years ago. Mustering enough courage and conviction in his cause, he presses the small button.

[Jane. Just, um…hope you have an okay Christmas, and…you’re not too alone. Just…]

Her voice loops around and around in his head for the rest of the night.

 


	9. nine.

She spies him out of the corner of her eyes, loitering around the drinks table, and silently wills him not to do anything stupid. She can’t get away from this conversation with Brenda, who seems even more talkative than usual, and she can only smile and nod (and glare over her shoulder at him), and she hates politics and media representations anyway.

“So Teresa, I’m glad you and your team could make it this year to the Christmas party. We never seem to see your team, and you do lead one of the best teams in the CBI…”

And she inwardly smirks and drowns out her voice for the third time in the last five minutes. She has always managed to spare her team from coming (for which Cho and Rigsby and Jane are immensely thankful), and really, as much as she doesn’t want to admit, it’s their consultant that usually has the media clamouring, not their honest police work.

She manages to make eye contact with said consultant, and finds him staring back at her, as if he had been locked in that position for the duration of Brenda Shettrick’s monologue. A teasing smile tilts his mouth as she glares daggers at him.

_Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t insult the five senators standing with Bertram._

“Isn’t it fantastic that we have so many new recruits into the CBI because of community outreach programs? We’ve increased public awareness over the last three years, and we’ve seen…”

_Relax, Lisbon. You enjoying yourself there?_

Again, she thinks that it’s Jane who’s been gracing the media for CBI lately, and she wants so much to tell Brenda to shut up, because cameras and media were what led Jane on this mad hunt in the first place.

_Go and keep Cho company by the Christmas tree. Just, whatever you do, leave the senators alone._

It’s his turn to smirk, because Cho is currently sitting on a step behind the tree, nose buried in a first edition of _A Christmas Carol_ , oblivious to the absolute monotony and forced politeness of agents and politicians alike.

Bored, Jane glances around and notices that Bertram is now conversing with Manning from White Collar, who really should have retired eons ago. Slowly edging away from the refreshments, he ducks behind the senators, and out of her line of sight.

_No, Jane, leave them alone as well. Manning’s son is one of the senators, and I don’t need whatever crap you’re going to stir up…_

“Sorry, Brenda, could you just excuse me for a moment.” Breaking off the monologue and giving the bewildered woman a hasty and pained smile, she darts towards Bertram, Manning and Jane, trying to prevent him from revealing some embarrassing fact about the decorated agent.

“Ah, Agent Lisbon, nice of you to join us. You’ve met Agent Manning, I trust?”

“Yes sir, of course.” It’s a stupid question, but she can tell that even Bertram is trying to avoid a PR nightmare with Jane standing next to him.

Abruptly turning to her consultant, she gives him a look, and quickly turns back to the director. “Sorry, sir. I’ve just remembered that I’ve left something in my office. If I could just…?”

And Bertram almost looks relieved when he nods and sees the back of them.

“That was very convincing, Lisbon. Almost believed you there myself.”

“Shut up, Jane,” she growls.

“Aww, Lisbon, you were bored there with Brenda. You should thank me for rescuing you,” he teases, and she almost smiles, because it’s _normal_ and they haven’t had normal for so long.

“Stop patronising me!” she snaps back, and before she’s consciously realised it, they’ve both headed for the stairs that lead up to the attic. Sighing, she sits down on the fifth step, refusing to retreat any further. He stops and gingerly lowers himself next to her, letting the distant sounds of the party wash over them. Minutes tick by before she speaks, unwilling to break the comfortable silence that she’s been craving for the past twelve months.

“Hell of a year,” she mutters, actually surprised that Jane hasn’t already said something.

His face softens as he looks at her, seeing a more haunted depth than last year, and guilt consumes him, because she’s stood by him for a lot more than he’s deserved, what with Vegas and the belladonna incident and the almost-forgotten confession and Lorelei and insanity in general.

Clearing his throat, he stares at her contemplatively. “Lisbon, I know I’ve been mostly an ass and I’m sorry about…a lot of things, but you have to know that…I’ve shared things with you that I haven’t told anyone in the last decade.”

“Yeah, I know, Jane,” she says softly, and she will always forgive him, and now is really not the time to think about _why_.

She rolls her champagne flute through her fingers, watching the dim light distort reality through the glass. She sighs and flicks her eyes toward him again, slightly unnerved by the intense jade orbs staring back at her.

“We’re close, aren’t we? You’re in the attic a lot, these days.”

The use of the pronoun startles him, although it really shouldn’t, and he has always been a selfish bastard, and as much as this is (was) a personal quest, he really can’t let go of her now, has always been tethered to this reality because of her. He often wonders (daydreams) what will happen _after_ , and while his façade has always been centred on now until then, he is lost enough to admit that he doesn’t know what will happen once the mirror maze is finished.

Her eyes widen with amused disbelief as he produces his tea cup (seemingly out of nowhere) and takes a comfortable sip. “We should get you back, Lisbon. All those important people to talk to,” he smirks at her annoyed expression, suppressing the jolt of happiness at her disappointment in his suggestion.

She stands up dutifully, reluctantly, and arches her eyebrow at him. At his refusal to stand up, she rolls her eyes good-naturedly at him. “Merry Christmas, Jane,” she tosses over her shoulder as she strides back in, leader persona in place. He smiles at her over the rim of his cup.


	10. ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set in the first year during the two year time jump.

_Dear Lisbon,_

_I hope you’ve been keeping well. It’s still warm and sunny here, and I can hear from my balcony, all the children on the street. You would love it here. It’s amazing how simple it is to live…_

He sends her letters and it is exactly the type of archaic, familiar, sweet, _personal_ gesture that she’s been aching for since moving to Washington. She tells herself that she loves the quiet and she has a home now (with a proper fireplace and everything) and being in a small town means that everyone knows you and uniforms mean that there is a tangible connection to her work, but she is still so lonely.

_…It’s Christmas, Lisbon. You’ll see I’ve sent you the latest shell for your collection (if you’re collecting them – I can only hope you’re not throwing them out, or venting your justified anger and annoyance at me by taking a hammer out on them)…_

She puts up a Christmas tree at the station and she feels somewhat self-conscious at first, because this is the first time she’s put one up since, well, a long time. But really, she’s become a figure in the community, and it’s not as if she’s chasing down the murderer of a high-powered senator anyway. She manages to enlist the help of the kids in the school, and after two hours, they stand back to admire the lights and the handmade ornaments. It’s pretty and innocent, and it chases away any disappointment she has of him disappearing again, and then she asks herself _who is she to be his keeper anyway?_

She takes a walk to the park, later in the afternoon, and she starts a ritual of remembering all those lives lost over the last decade. She has time to think now, a flower in the pond for each name.

_…There was a girl the other day on the beach who gave me this one. She had long dark hair, big brown eyes and a very serious face. She reminded me of you, and she invited me over to her small house with her family. She told me no one should be alone, so close to Christmas. (Or, I think that’s what she said – my Spanish is still a bit rusty). Neither should you, Lisbon..._

And because she’s in the mood, she finds a small Christmas tree and puts it up in her own home. She watches the lights from the tree and the candles and the fire bounce off the surface of the wine in her glass, ripples dancing in front of her, the smell of smoke and pine and grapes filling the heady silence. She’s reminded of the rare occasion when he would come over, and late night talks and banter and debates would leave them tired, yet simultaneously awake.

_…And before you start denying it, let me explain. You do mean a lot to me, and I am sorry for all the grief I’ve caused, especially the last year. You deserve a lot better. But please, woman. Call your brothers. Call Tommy and Annie. See Cho and Rigsby and Van Pelt. Do all the cop things you cops do, and let them know that they are missed…_

She invites Wayne and Grace over for dinner and company. She is genuinely glad to see that they are happy, and feels a strong rush of pride for her former agents as they tell her of their private security firm. And they eat and chat and eat some more, and they ask her whether she’s heard from him, and she’s stuck with what to say. She leaves them with a quiet wistful ‘yes’, and she doesn’t miss the soft look they give each other. Another hour passes, and she bids them goodbye, retreating back to her couch, warm from the lingering company of friends.

Dinners with them turn into a fortnightly event, and on the second one after, she’s stunned because she hears Grace say ‘I’m pregnant’ and she automatically smiles and she is genuinely happy, but she feels something break inside. And dinner keeps happening, and she doesn’t let anything show.

_…I know I’m not of much use to you right now, but I hope that you’re in good spirits. I can’t get you a pony, or anything like that from here…_

She carefully places the shell on her desk at work. Some days, she stares at it for minutes on end, almost willing his voice to magically sound through the hollow. She imagines its place on the beach, on the hot sand, rolled in from the tide, of the children on the shoreline, noisy, _alive_ … She imagines him chasing the birds, drinking tea by the beach, thousand-watt smile blinding the local waitresses, carefree and content.

And when her deputy walks in and asks her curiously about the shell, she ducks her head shyly, smiles, and tells him that it’s a gift from a close friend. Her smile is noticeable from rooms away.­

_…and I think the shell is prettier anyway. I’m sure you’ll know what to do with it. It’s me saying thank you for all these years (a small thank you – I know there’s so much more that needs to be done).  You told me once that we’ll get there. I’m happy here, and I know it’s not the same without you here as well, but I hope that you’re doing okay too…_

She goes home early on Christmas Eve, lights the fire, and settles back. She sits peacefully with the letter in hand; reading and re-reading, and the embers flicker and fade. She smiles and whispers into the darkened room.

“Merry Christmas, Jane.”

_…Wishing you a happy Christmas, Lisbon._

_-J.”_


End file.
